Zombi Seige
by Chris Russo
Summary: What was originally planned as a trek to find supplies becomes a physically and emotionally changing experience for the Rider.
1. Prologue

NOTICE: There is no E at the end of zombi(e) as was my intention. This first chapter is just an informal chapter to establish a backstory. Please Read and Review!

**Zombi Siege**

Mor • tem (môrtəm), noun: The Latin suffix for "Death"; The ongoing war between the living and the dead, beginning in May 23, 2008 and lasting to present day.

After the beginning of Mortem, Las Vegas truly lived up to its street-name, The "Capital of Sin." Somewhere along the western rim of Las Vegas, carved into a canyon wall just between Vegas and the city limits of Boulder, rested a large disease registry facility.

This facility was constructed to research and develop new ways to combat diseases such as cancer and Parkinson's. The facility wasn't necessarily a "plant" per se, but more of a vacant storage lot used to keep waste that no one wanted blame for having. The government would process the waste, and dump whatever was left into a basin.

But, as with all seemingly good ideas, there was a flaw. There was a leak in the basin, which emptied out into the Boulder reservoir.

Eventually, the reservoir was distributed through the aqueducts, tainting the state's water supply. It wasn't long until anarchy spread.

The entire state of Nevada was lost within a matter of days. It wasn't long before the government sprang into action, and tried to stop the outbreak. All borders were sealed and patrolled regularly. Of course there were cover-ups, however they had no effect. Within a matter of months, the majority of the Pacific States were lost.

Cities turned against the government, prosecuting them for their actions. The country went awry in an uproar of hatred as the Presidential Cabinet was transported out of the country to safety, leaving us to die.

Not very long after that the "Neo-NSA" was completely destroyed from the inside out.

There were battalions worth of what the government was calling "Zeds" attacking countless cities and towns. It was as if they had planned the attack.

Within the course of the next few months, the entirety of the U.S.A. had been destroyed.

There was silence for years, until what remained of humanity decided to fight back… That was when Mortem began…

…Even now, Mortem continues. At this moment, millions of battles are being waged. People left in the confines of their hometowns to die, coming together to rise up and reclaim our world from the grasp of the Dead. Not knowing the condition of the world outside their city limits, with only one thing left to drive them: The will to be free.

Several settlements have been established to sanctify and confirm Humanity's survival, and that the Undead shall no longer commit the genocide that had already been result of their hunger.

The world slowly reshapes itself, but growth does not come without a price.

Many lives have been lost; many good people who worked for an honest living, as well as many bad people who killed their fellow man for sport.

There are those who have learned from this experience, and have claimed they would never kill their fellow man again… But there are also those who see both the living and the dead to be equal threats.

The Hostilis is an international cult. It is their belief that humanity's only means of reaching paradise is through the one thing they fear most besides judgment: complete extinction.

The dawn twilight shed gracefully upon the Capital of Sin as a motorcycle passed below a weathered sign. Its rider remained silent as he passed through what was once a desert valley. He glanced at the sign with little interest as his bike putted along the tattered highway. In bleak, dusty letters, he read the words "Las Vegas, next right." It was covered in various forms of hateful graffiti, and had apparently managed, spectacularly, to remain standing.

The rider glanced passively over his shoulder at the sign, but continued his journey inconsequential.

What had once been the bustling freeway of the I-5 interstate was now reduced to rusted out cars, countless ancient pile-ups, and an almost dizzying array of endless rubble. The old cars had been reduced to withered frames, and primitive mechanics. These stood as a symbol to humanity as to how long it had been since the "End of Days."

The biker sped by along the highway, trying not to reflect on his former life. For him, it brought back too much pain…

Even more pain than the Zeds in pursuit of him could ever cause.


	2. Concrete Ruins

**Zombi Siege 2**

The ancient asphalt crushed under the bike's wheels as it rode into the ruins of Old Las Vegas. The city stank of expired flesh on an open flame: Unbearable.

What was once a beautiful yet dizzying array of neon lights and super-sized decorative buildings is now an empty ruin. Soft groans could be heard in the distance, notifying the Rider of the immense city's new inhabitants.

The bike hadn't screeched very far into the ruins before the Rider's nerves started getting the best of him. He began to look over his shoulders skittishly, expecting something to pop up from no-where and disembowel him.

The Rider increased the throttle as the groans grew in frequency. He reached the inner city, and suddenly began to feel an urge to stop.

The Rider examined his surroundings, which seemed familiar to him. To his left, a rustic themed building with its top floors completely removed; to his right, a massive dried fountain, which complimented a building that was based off of Greek architecture. It was without a doubt, the Caesar's Palace.

Suddenly, he paused.

His head cocked, and his eyes went cold. He thumbed the motorcycle's key off, pushed down the kickstand and let it lean. He drew a Glock-18 automatic pistol from the lining of his riding jacket, and checked the clip and slide. He cocked the weapon, and held it motionless at the side of his ruffled jeans. Approaching dust winds made his riding jacket rustle.

Within seconds moans became louder in the distance.

"Zeds," the driver said in his gruff voice that leaked urgency. He slowly raised the gun as figures stumbled towards him out of the rising dust.

The first figure to become more than a mere silhouette was a teenager, possibly sixteen years old. Haggard skin ridden with bite marks contrasted with his dark brown hair. His t-shirt was scattered lazily across his torso in tatters, ripped apart from what appeared to be human hands. His jeans were clean, except for a tear in the knee, from which a chunk of flesh was missing.

The Rider tried not the reconstruct what had happened to the boy, but couldn't help it. The kid was probably ambushed in a field where a Zombie had been lying on its broken legs, unable to stand, and bit him in the kneecap. The kid falls screaming, and gets his chest ripped open for his carelessness. He is bitten all over as he starts to go into shock.

He raised the Glock-18 with steady aim, and shot what was once a young teen square in its forehead causing a small cloud of coagulated blood and brain matter to spray spasmodically from his limp body. The Zed fell as if he had been lynched, legs first. No blood pooled, it rather scattered due to its coagulated thickness.

He aimed at the next one, a pregnant female, and finished her with another headshot. The next shot was the same, as was the one after that, and after that, and the same shot over and over until the wave of Zeds were through, pausing occasionally to reload.

The last Zombie dropped to its second grave as the Rider kick-started the ignition on his bike nonchalantly. He rested his Glock back home in his jacket, and sped away leaving the corpses to rot further.

His bike lurched as he switched on Turbo. The Rider swept passed more and more destruction, all growing worse and worse with each square foot. The bike sputtered and crept along slowly while the Rider examined his surroundings, expecting more Zeds. He suddenly found the end of his long trek at the mouth of an old Traffic Tunnel.

Several old chain link fences gated it off, as if a band of survivors from the First Days had made an attempt to create a makeshift barrier for themselves as they sought refuge from the hordes of Zeds. He lingered at the mouth of the tunnel expectantly. Suddenly, a fast groan passed his right ear. Before he could unholster his Glock-18, a Zed forced its way onto his arm, grasping it tightly.

The rider attempted to punch the Zed with his free arm, but the Zed had grabbed it before he could get off a clear punch. It opened its gaping mouth in attempts to bite the Rider, but the Rider had managed to free his legs from their holsters in the bike, and kicked the Zed away from his body with some force. The decaying bastard stumbled backwards several feet, and tripped over a storm drain, his head collapsing onto an old protruding piece of rebar on the sidewalk, ending its hungry "life".

After he was able to get his Barings, the Rider quickly looked up, alerted by several more faceless groans that had joined the party. He drew his Glock-18 and advanced to the tunnel. His head craned backwards when the groans grew louder behind him.

He turned back toward the tunnel. The Rider proceeded with his search for an entrance for several minutes to no avail. He considered finding another way into the tunnel, but the groans around him were growing in intensity, signaling that time was short.

He finally broke down and screamed into the tunnel. "Hello?" No answer. "Hello!" The results were unchanged. "This is Officer Lucas Alexander, LAPD. Can anyone hear me?"

Again, the answer was nil. He turned and considered forgetting his entire journey, but a strange noise escaped the tunnel.

"Are you infected?" Came a quiet voice from the shadows.

The Rider turned to the tunnel to meet the source of the voice, but found no face to be looking back at him, only a silhouette before a lamp in the darkness. "No, but if I stay out here much longer that'll change." Said the Rider. "Let me in, I've got a supply crate on my bike that you can use as collateral for my stay here."

A young man stepped forward from the shadows to the gate to unlock it. The man wore nothing more than a faded blue jumpsuit, a Kevlar vest, a pair of black converse and a navy-blue beanie as protection.

"Are you alone?" Said the man "Did any of them follow you?"

"No, but I can hear them advancing from all directions. They'll be here soon if you don't let me in."

The man held a Heckler & Koch MP7 Submachine Gun in his hands, along with what appeared to be an old pipe wrench of some kind, albeit heavily modified. He kneeled down to the bottom of the Fence and unscrewed a thick bolt. It was apparently a lock-and-key system for the gate, as the man proceeded to untighten several more bolts from other places of the gate, including parts that held in onto the concrete.

He raised a portion of the gate that the rider barely managed to fit his motorcycle through. He had only touched the ground on the other side of the gate when another voice screamed "DAMMIT! THEY'RE HERE!"

The Rider turned to the gate instinctively, and pulled his Glock-18 from his jacket. The first figure he had met closed the gate, and was retightening the bolts quickly as his allies picked off the incoming Zombies with the Rider's help. The man had finished his work and rejoined the others as a Zombie launched itself onto the gate.

The Rider shot the old Zombie square between the eyes as a cloud of thick black blood splashed from his forehead. The Zombie dropped to his feet as another had risen from the dust to take its place. The hordes seemed to be ongoing with no end, but the Rider kept on firing mercilessly into the crowd of rotting corpses.

There seemed to be a sort of pattern with his shots: head, neck, torso, torso, neck, head, and etcetera. Many of his shots served as nothing more than a minor distraction for the Zombies, while the faceless figures crowded around the Rider had managed to finish the job.

As the last corpse fell, the Rider could not help but hold his position, gun ready, for several seconds afterward. Apparently the men around him had also had some close calls as well, because they too stood ready for another wave.

He could not see their faces, but the Rider had counted at least seven other muzzle flashes that had erupted around him. How could he have not turned on his flashlight to check the tunnel before trying to gain entry? They must have had a laugh watching him try to open the gate.

"Quckly," said the voice of the man who had opened the gate. "We should head down to the Dwellings. I think that's the last of 'em."

The men then proceeded to turn on an old floodlight in the back of what appeared to be an old subway lobby. The light filled the room, illuminating every nook and cranny. There was nowhere to hide in here.

After closing what looked like a shopkeeper's gate from an old mall over the already existing makeshift barrier, the Rider and this squad of apparent mechanics left the lobby without a word.


End file.
